


held me in your arms just a little too tight

by orphan_account



Series: we're on a quick, sick rampage [8]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bittybones (Undertale), Bittybones Abuse, Egg Laying, Egg Smashing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lamia Bittybones, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A Pygmy lamia bittybones has made himself at home... in YOUR home. You have a low tolerance for snakes and an even lower tolerance for pests.





	held me in your arms just a little too tight

**Author's Note:**

> The Pygmy-type lamia bittybones belongs to vexy-sins on tumblr (she has a SFW blog too, but I don't want this appearing if someone searches for nice friendly stories). They are intensely cute, but I'm a despicable human being, so here we are.

There was something stuck to the trap. That was the first thing you noticed when you woke up. You’d put down glue traps in your kitchen (baited with peanut butter) when you’d started to notice food going missing (there had been nibbles out of your bread, holes in your cereal boxes, and even stolen chunks from fruit), and then you’d waited. Now, you’d seen something struggling when you peeked around the corner, and you could make out the shape of some sort of animal stuck there. The little food thief, presumably; you hadn’t expected rats when you signed your apartment lease, but the animal had looked about that size.  You approached the trap, intending to pick it up and dispose of the pest, and got your first close look at what you’d caught.

At first, you thought it was a snake—and it was, but only about halfway. From the waist down, the animal in the trap had the body of a snake, but its upper half was humanoid, dressed in a tattered grey t-shirt and blue bandana. Its head… now that was the strange part. Its head was essentially the shape of a human skull, and its eyes were bright blue and staring at you. When it realized you were looking, the end of its body (blue scales, green belly, you noted distantly) began to twitch, almost like a dog wagging its tail. Although it had a mouth, it didn’t seem like it was trying to speak—instead, it waved a gloved hand at you.

You had a vague idea of what this thing was, and you were intensely creeped out that a Lamia Bittybones had been loose in your home for god knows how long. They were half-snake, half-Bittybones, those little skeleton pets that were so popular, and they were at least somewhat intelligent. If you remembered correctly from your vague online browsings, this one was called a “Pygmy” type. You supposed some people would find its colorful scales and cheerful expression adorable. You didn’t. 

You really didn’t like snakes.

“Okay, what the actual fuck,” you muttered under your breath. Weren’t these things supposed to be pets? What was one doing loose, being a pest in your home? As you thought, the Pygmy tried to slither closer to you, but failed because the trap held its tail fast. You jumped back, disgusted at the undulations of its serpentine body, and tried to come up with a way to deal with this situation.

Weren’t there shelters for these… pets? Maybe you could just put the trap in a box and take it there, let them deal with it? No, they’d probably bitch at you for using glue traps, even though you hadn’t intended to catch one of these, and you didn’t want to hear it.

Oh, god, now the Pygmy was thrashing incredibly hard, almost as if it was excited. You wished it would stop, and cringed away. When you got a look at its face again, it was making a pained expression, almost as though something was hurting it. You imagined the glue trap wasn’t comfortable, but you didn’t exactly feel bad—if these things were sentient, then it should know better than to steal from someone’s home. Either way, you couldn’t just leave it there… or you could, but that would be cruel, wouldn’t it?

A quick Google told you that this type wasn’t venomous—why would they sell one that was, you wondered—but might still bite. Apparently they could talk, but would only pick it up after living with a human, and this one hadn’t said a word. After putting on some thick gardening gloves, you felt a little more prepared to handle the Pygmy in your kitchen.

You supposed you’d have to just deal with it band-aid style, and rip the lamia from the trap as fast as you could, then take it to a shelter ASAP. Your hands shook a little when you reached for the wriggling body, which you approximated to be about ten inches long, but you grasped the Pygmy around its middle with one hand and held the trap in the other. You took a deep breath and wrenched your hands apart, the lamia in your dominant hand letting out a peep of pain, but it was done. Only a few scales remained stuck to the trap, so the bitty could stuff it, really. You could have done much worse.

You weren’t about to put the thing down and let it start thieving from your house again, so you walked to your bathroom, thinking it could stay in the tub until you found a container. You dropped it like it was on fire, a fall of about four feet, and heard a thud from the tub’s bottom. Although the Pygmy immediately began slithering about, it didn’t seem able to climb the walls. You left the bathroom in search of a box you could put the thing in, shuddering a little at the thought that you’d just handled a snake.

A cursory search of your apartment revealed no convenient containers for transporting the lamia, so you returned to the bathroom to check on it, dialing the number for the lamia bittybones shop on the way. When you opened the door, your phone fell from your shoulder, and you lost the ability to move. 

Eggs. _The fucking Pygmy was laying eggs._ Its face was scrunched up with effort, and it already had three or four glistening round horrors next to it in the bathtub. It appeared to be in the process of pushing out more from an opening around where you’d think its waist would be (your high school biology lessons came back to you distantly, and you supposed you should call it a cloaca). “Not no but fuck no,” you shouted, briefly startling the bitty; then you were pulling the gloves you’d left by the sink back on, and lifting the lamia into the air. You placed your thumb over the cloaca and pressed firmly, preventing any more eggs from coming out. The Pygmy squeaked in distress, wiggling its body hard to try to escape, but you held on tight, determined to stop what was happening ( _in your bathtub! Hell no!_ ). Tape, you needed to find tape, or something to shove inside its hole to shut this down.

You raced through your house, struggling Pygmy squeaking and pushing at your hand with its own gloved hands, looking for your roll of duct tape. You dug in your junk drawer with your non-dominant hand and came up with a half-used roll of clear packing tape. That would do, even if it wasn’t ideal. You placed the back of the hand that was holding the lamia onto your kitchen counter, and awkwardly peeled off the end of the tape with your teeth. You moved your thumb away from the bitty’s cloaca, and as quickly as you could, slapped the tape over the opening, where another egg was already trying to emerge. You wrapped the tape around the undulating snake body five or six times, and then held the Pygmy down with your wrist while you ripped the tape from the roll. It thrashed as hard as it could, making wordless sounds of distress, but you put a substantial amount of your weight onto it and prevented it from making any escapes.

Your impromptu egg-stopping solution appeared to have worked. You could see the Pygmy’s cloaca smushed up against the tape, and the round suggestion of the egg coming through, but no matter how hard it seemed to push or how flushed its face got, the egg didn’t move. You didn’t take your gloves off, aware that the lamia could still bite, but it seemed too distressed to do much of anything but whimper and squeak in discomfort. _It should feel grateful that I didn't find a pencil first_ , you thought, _nasty little snake freeloader_.

Now that there wouldn’t be any further eggs, you had to deal with the ones still sitting in the bottom of your bathtub. You shifted your grip on the Pygmy, holding it by the arms, which you’d pulled behind its back with your non-dominant hand. Huh, it seemed that the bitty had begun to cry, human-like tears rolling down its skeletal face. Its attempt to obtain your sympathy failed, though—if you were not kindly inclined toward the little snake creature in the first place, you’d lost all care for its well-being or feelings (if it had any) when it started spawning in your home. Its squeaks increased in volume, and you briefly contemplated taping over its mouth, but decided against having to hold the thing any longer than necessary.

You carried the Pygmy, which had resumed its wriggling in full force, back into your bathroom, where four little white eggs shone wetly on the bathtub floor. The lamia strained against your grip toward the eggs, although he had no hope of getting free, and chirped as though he was trying to speak to them.

“Okay, little snake,” you said, over the bitty’s noise, “this is why you don’t sneak into houses that aren’t yours.” You placed the lamia back into the tub, letting its tail rest on the tub’s bottom while keeping your grip on its arms. You leaned over the tub’s side, and raised your dominant hand, palm flat. The Pygmy kept pulling against your grip.

You clenched your raised hand into a fist.

 The bitty’s squeaks rose to a crescendo, louder than you’d thought possible, and you almost lost your grip on him from the strength of his struggles. You brought your hand down with all the force you could muster upon the fragile eggs, smashing all four in one strike, and ground your hand against the liquefied mess for good measure. In your other hand, you felt small pops shudder through the lamia’s body, and you realized it had dislocated its shoulders in an effort to save the eggs. You released the Pygmy now, and it raced the few inches to where the remnants of its eggs lay, rubbing itself futilely against the goopy mess. It began to cry in earnest now, holding pieces of shell in its gloved hands and sobbing silently. 

After a minute or so, you lifted the bitty from the mess, and turned the water on to wash the former eggs down the drain. Your grip compressed the taped area around the Pygmy’s cloaca, and it made a pained squeal. You squeezed a couple more times, just for fun, watching the pain flash across the lamia’s tear-streaked face. What were you going to do with the thing now?

Well, you had been meaning to take out your trash.

The lamia in your hands trembled with fear and cried silently, but seemed defeated and didn’t try to get away anymore. You scanned your kitchen for a potential solution. Sitting on the floor, near the full trash can, was an empty plastic container of laundry soap. The hole might be big enough… ah, yes, it was, you thought as you shoved the shaking Pygmy inside, tail-first, and screwed on the lid. Some thumps echoed from inside, but not loudly enough for anyone but you to hear. You lifted the trash bag from the can, placed the container inside, bitty and all, and tied the top shut.

You walked with the bag outside your door, and down the hall to the trash chute. You lifted the lid and threw the bag inside. As you walked away, you thought you heard crying, but dismissed it as birds from outside, and continued on.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the first story in this series I feel... sort of bad about. Well, it's out now. Thank you for reading, and any comments are much appreciated!


End file.
